The Warmth of Her Song

The day was cold. I came from the pathways of my campus—all literally frozen or slushed over from the terrible Chicago weather—and the relentless wind brought fast, red color into my cheeks and nose. I entered Anderson Hall. This tall, rounded building was my first year place of residence at North Park—a surrogate home.

I stomped off the ice from my sturdy, beloved brown shoes that were certainly not thick enough to keep the cold out. Look up and smile, I tell myself so as not to forget the desk attendant who wanted to see my ID. Fumbling a bit, I retrieved the little plastic card needed for entry. Say hello. I shook both legs in a funny jig to fling the ice chunks off my pants and then trudged up the flight of stairs to my room, all the while awkwardly slipping on tiles with puddles of melted ice. Fishing into my coat pocket with fuzzy mittens, I retrieved the door keys, unlocked the door, entered and proceeded to strip off my soaking wet pants. They had accumulated icy water up to mid-shin. Much better. I was tired, college sometimes drains.

Time for a shower. I gathered the odds and ends needed, wrapped myself in a towel that almost fit around me twice, and plodded down the rounded hallway toward my niche of relief. Turning on the water and letting it pool on the floor I stepped in and started to feel my near-frostbitten toes again. The heat of the water flowed all around me, ebbing into the depths of my bodily cold.

My mind whirled incomprehensibly as I tried to piece together the good and the bad from my day. It’s just too cold to try. Every part felt engulfed in chill—even my thoughts and sometimes my spirit were wintered by all that is foreign and difficult. Wintered by a new college, by a first roommate, by a diverse campus, by a big city, by a lack of home. I let the hot water gushing from its spout return feeling in the numbness. Then suddenly out of my mouth came another source of warmth: the nightly melodies of my childhood. “Rain drops on roses and whiskers on kittens… when I’m feeling sad, I simply remember by favorite things…” The music and its words comforted my frustrated mind, body, and spirit.

In those moments I was not lacking home. In the songs sung by the mother who loves, I returned to the comfort of my bedroom at bedtime, dark and safe. The soothing, emanating presence of my mother’s songs flooded my heart. The tingling of blood rushing back in filled me with hope for real and available warmth.